


Rills That Run With Honey

by Pouncer



Category: Panic At The Disco, The Hush Sound
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-30
Updated: 2008-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:45:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouncer/pseuds/Pouncer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greta reached out, tugged Brendon inside, and said, "This better be worth interrupting my bath."</p><p>Disclaimer: The people are real. The story is fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rills That Run With Honey

It wasn't like Greta _set out_ to seduce Brendon Urie. He was fun, sure, and bouncy, and they could trade instruments for an entire tour without ever getting bored. They played, and flirted via risqué innuendo, and had fun, but it never went any further while The Hush Sound promoted _Like Vines_ and Panic! stormed up the charts.

But there was this one night, midway through Honda Civic, where everybody else went out to dance, and all Greta wanted to do was go back to the hotel, take a bath, and relax. Bubbles and hot water and blessed, blessed silence, until a knock sounded at the door.

Greta groaned because Chris had probably forgotten his key again. She emerged from the tub like Venus from the waves, wrapped herself in the skimpy hotel towel, heedless of the foam drifting down her legs, and stalked to the door.

She didn't look through the peephole before she opened it, and that was a _mistake_, because it wasn't Chris. It was Brendon, bouncing in place and with a wild grin that turned into blank shock as he took in her barely-concealed form.

"I, uh," he stuttered, and Greta rolled her eyes. As if they hadn't seen each other changing before, and leered for effect. Strands of damp hair stuck to her neck.

"What?"

"I --"

He wasn't leaving, was in fact gazing down and then jerking his eyes up, and the draft from the hall was cold. Greta reached out, tugged him inside, and said, "This better be worth interrupting my bath."

"I was bored," Brendon finally blurted out. "I can go."

He was such a _boy_ sometimes. Greta liked to make him blush.

"Did you think I could amuse you?" Greta all-but purred. "Will you make it worth my while?"

Brendon blinked and breathed in and said, "Yes! Yes, definitely."

Well then. Why not?

This could be more relaxation than a bath could ever bring. Greta closed the security lock, hooked her finger into Brendon's waistband, and tugged him along to the bed. She'd already pulled the covers down, and he fell backward so _prettily_. She straddled his lap and leaned in for a kiss. His mouth opened under hers, and he tasted like fruit punch and vodka. It had been too long since she indulged in a good make out session -- she'd forgotten how much she liked it.

Brendon's hands perched on her hips, and Greta let the towel fall open. He kissed down her neck, and she figured it was time to even up the skin quotient. She pulled Brendon's t-shirt over his head and unbuckled his belt. Silly girl jeans, worn so tight she was surprised he had space to get hard, but there he was under her hand.

He gasped when she stroked his cock, keened softly against her breast then bit at her nipple. Greta arched closer; she liked that, liked the way he licked and sucked with just enough pressure. His cheeks, dark with stubble, almost scratched her skin, multiplying the feeling.

"What do you want?" Brendon asked, and she leaned back, ground against his hardness. His mouth was swollen and red, his Adam's apple prominent against his neck, and all she could think was how good his tongue would feel against her clitoris.

She ran a finger around his lips and his teeth pulled it inside, sharp and soft and wet. Greta leaned down and bit at his earlobe. "Your mouth," she whispered. "First."

Chris could sleep with Bob and Darren for all she cared.

Brendon's hips pulsed upward, helpless, and then he lifted Greta to where she could lounge back against the pillows.

"Take off your jeans," she told him. "I want to see."

The muscles in his arms moved smoothly as he got naked, and Greta imagined him fucking her, holding himself up with flexed biceps and triceps and that would be good. Later.

She spread her legs, still damp from the bath, and Brendon dove between them. Greta laughed at his eagerness, then broke off into a gasp. He was _nuzzling_ at her, breathing in and out and pressing kisses to the inside of her thighs. His hands pulled her knees wider, and he grinned up at her.

"Make it good, Brendon," Greta said, because he'd always struck her as a _puppy_ instead of a man.

Maybe her character judgment was impaired, though, because he lapped at her, gentle enough to tease. Greta canted her hips up, wanting more, and Brendon obliged. His mouth explored her cunt, tongue licking into recesses, lips sucking with barely any pressure. She ran her hands through his hair, grazed her nails on his scalp, pulled him closer. She felt him smile, and then he went to work in earnest, hot velvet rubbing against her. One hand cupped her ass, the other slid up her belly to pinch at her nipple, and Greta couldn't stop the moan.

"I love the way you smell," Brendon muttered, rubbing his cheek against her thigh before returning to the task she'd set for him. Brendon was a star pupil, played her with the virtuosity she'd witnessed on piano and guitar strings. Greta didn't know why she was surprised, but a distant corner of her mind wondered who else knew about this talent of Brendon's.

He was delving into her cunt now, tongue pressing inside with exquisite pressure on her clitoris. A finger began to rub around where he was licking her, and Greta _whimpered_, wanted more: harder, faster, forever. Brendon kept pinching her nipples, alternating back and forth, tongue and lips moving in rhythm, and nothing existed except the pleasure building to a crescendo.

Teeth bit down, lightly, lightly, but it was enough to tip Greta over. She rolled her hips, frantic, while Brendon lapped. She was soaked, she could feel, and she'd climaxed but still wanted more.

"Fuck me," she said, and Brendon's face shot up, pupils blown, mouth glistening. He fumbled for his jeans, got the condom on, and flowed up and into her while her body still trembled. Greta gasped at the sensation, on edge, loving his fullness, the way he kissed her collarbone as he thrust. She wrapped her legs around his hips, scored her nails down his back, and he shuddered.

His arms surrounded her, his weight pressed her down into the mattress, his cock rubbed in just the right place and Jesus, Jesus.

Maybe they should have spent less time playing piano together.

Brendon's mouth sought out hers, kissing deep and she fucked his mouth in counterpoint to the rhythm of him fucking her. Sweat rolled down his temples and he surged, deep and sharp and groaning. Greta squeezed her knees and almost sobbed as her second orgasm washed over, so good with him inside her.

Every inch of her skin hummed, even after he pulled out and rolled onto his back. Greta snuggled against Brendon's side, trying to catch her breath, and said, "You got me all dirty again."

He laughed, weakly. "Was it worth it?"

"Oh, yes," she said. That wasn't in any doubt. She ran her fingers over his ribs, a glissando that made him shiver. "Maybe we can see how the shower rates, in a bit?"

Brendon kissed her forehead, pulled her closer, and hummed.

Greta sank into the bed and marveled at how much more fulfilling the evening had turned out to be. Sex beat baths for relaxation, any day of a tour.

 

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. This came out of nowhere, commentfic spun out of control. My thanks to eleanor_lavish for reassuring me about various character points. In my never-ending quest to attempt cool titles, I found the following, way-too profound, passage from Plato:
> 
> For the poets tell us, don't they, that the melodies they bring us are gathered from rills that run with honey, out of glens and gardens of the Muses, and they bring them as bees do honey, flying like the bees? And what they say is true, for a poet is a light and winged thing, and holy, and never able to compose until he has become inspired, and is beside himself, and reason is no longer in him. So long as he has this in his possession, no man is able to make poetry or to chant in prophecy.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer Redux: This never happened. I made it up. Don't google yourself or your friends (and if you do, please don't tell me).


End file.
